by S. L. Naeole
It was no secret that Mrs. Hoppbaker and Mr. Hoppbaker were in love. They were the only people to ever have been kicked out of the Indian Mound Mall movie theater for making out. Of course, Mrs. Hoppbaker and Mr. Hoppbaker had both weighed the equivalent of six people at the time, and a great to-do was made of it, but in the end they both said that they should have kept it a little more PG and a lot less NC-17.
I was so amazed at the transformation in her that I failed to notice that while everyone else’s eyes were on her, one pair was on me. It wasn’t until I heard my pencil drop onto the floor and bent down too retrieve it that I turned to see them: A pair of gray eyes, focused so intently on my every move, I almost stopped breathing.
“I might sound like a broken record here, but so we meet again,” a soft, soothing voice spoke.
My attempt to sit up was so abrupt, my head connected with the corner of my desk with painful accuracy. The sound seemed to reverberate around the now silent classroom. When did the questions for Mrs. Hoppbaker stop? Why did they have to stop now—right when I happen make a fool of myself all over again? “Idiot,” I mumbled to myself as I grabbed my head with my left hand.
The giggling and laughter that erupted surrounded me, and the suffocating feeling of embarrassment began to overwhelm. A warm hand reached over to cover my free one just then and time seemed to stop. Everything was blurred by a misty haze while electricity seemed to shoot between the microscopic space between our hands—a human Jacob’s ladder—the current bouncing between the two of us as I slowly raised myself upright. My breathing eased, my head stopped hurting, and my left hand dropped down. I looked into those gray eyes again, not exactly sure what I’d see, but positive that whatever it was it would never leave my mind for as long as I lived.
“Not gray…silver…” I whispered, burning the mysterious shade to memory before he could blink—before I could blink.
The sound of the bell woke me from my dreamy fog. Class was over; how did that happen? How did I manage to daydream through two classes in a row? Everyone was standing up, grabbing their books and heading off to their third periods. I looked over to my right at the empty desk. Had I imagined it all? Had I been daydreaming and everything that I thought had taken place…hadn’t? I looked towards the front of the classroom at Mrs. Hoppbaker. Nope. She was still thinner and beautiful.
I stood up and dreamily headed out the door to my next class. What was my next class? I had been so preoccupied by the sight of Mr. Branke’s name on my schedule that I had completely skipped over it. I scrambled into my book bag for the small sheet of paper and scanned the class list. There was a big, blank spot where the period before lunch was supposed to be. A free period! There was a God!
I headed towards the school library on anxious feet. It was my sanctuary. It was where I knew that I wouldn’t run into Graham or Erica, and I was sure that I wouldn’t run into the new boy either. I walked through the double doors of the school library and took a deep breath—the smell of books was always comforting. I had made a vow with myself at the beginning of summer that should I ever become filthy, stinking rich, I’d buy myself a million books, if only to smell them. Much like people loved the smell of new cars, I was enthralled by the smell of the written word.
I found a table near the restroom and plunked myself down onto a chair, tossing my book bag onto the ground. I took out the pencil that I had used in French class and stared at the tip. It was still sharp—barely used. Did I have an unknown pen that I’d absentmindedly used instead? I rummaged through my bag, turning out its contents in vain. A dollar and some odd change, a paper clip, three rubber bands for my hair, an old gum wrapper, my MP3 player and my binder full of paper were all that were there. I didn’t even have a single book.
Perplexed, I placed everything except the trash back in my bag, and continued to stare at my nearly unused pencil. I knew I had written my name and date, title and period on my French paper. I knew that I had gotten through at least three points of the syllabus for Calculus.
The syllabus—it was still in my folder! I quickly took it out again and opened it up. There, staring up at me on the first page was the exact same syllabus, written in my hand; thirteen points of classroom discussions, testing, and assignments, described in detail; I could only remember writing the first three.
There was something fishy going on and I didn’t know what to make of it. Perhaps it was everything I had gone through these past few weeks. Maybe all of this stress…maybe it was making me zone out and I was simply writing out of reflex. Some people are capable of driving home long distances without realizing it after great stresses in their lives. Why not writing? It seemed rational enough—if I said it enough times, maybe I’d start to believe it. And why not? The entire school already thinks I’m pretty damn gullible now, so I should be able to convince myself of just about anything.
Like how the gray-eyed god had been in two of my classes and he had deliberately sat down next to me in both of them…and had spoken to me…twice. And he touched my hand; I didn’t imagine that. Oh no. He really had touched my hand; his hand was warm, soft…not like the calloused hands of my dad, or even Graham. With that brief contact, he had somehow compressed the scattered ashes in my chest back into a solid mass, the force of it causing it to ignite. And it burned, still. With his pewter eyes and his warm hand, he had rendered me speechless, clumsy, breathless…and whole.
And I still didn’t know his name!
What was it that Madame Hidani had said his last name was? Bellegarde? He was half French? What else did I remember about him? What color was his hair? I remembered fluttering, like a bird’s wing—it was black. His hair was definitely black. That meant that those slate eyes were rimmed with black lashes. What about his face—what did it look like? Chiseled? Slightly. There was softness in his face…his smile. The smile that had made me forget how to breathe, or blink, it was so beautiful.
I felt my breath catch and my heart race as I remembered how it only grew when I had asked him if he were talking to me. It seemed an impossibility that he was referring to me when he uttered those few, mundane words that seemed to alter my world in less than a nanosecond. Meet again? Had we ever even met? Surely he couldn’t consider my rudely bumping into him and then running away like a coward actually “meeting”…right?
Then again, he was part French, and even Madame Hidani made it a point to bring up the fact that the French are known to seem rude to those that have spent lifetimes dealing with courtesy and etiquette rules handed down by custom, as we in America are known to do. Perhaps he thought my bumping into him was familiar? My running off was glad tidings?
I shook my head at the insanity of the notion. No. What I did was rude in any language, any country. I was fooling myself here. It wouldn’t do me any good to muddle my head with more inane notions with three more classes to go, and the one I dreaded the most coming up immediately after lunch.
I shuddered at the thought of Mr. Branke’s creepy smile, his hairy arms, and his monstrous hands. I doubted that he’d focus as much attention on me this year—now that I was the laughingstock of the entire school there really wasn’t any appeal left at all, if there had been any to begin with. But I could still mentally prepare myself for this while I had the chance.
Before I knew it, the bell was ringing, signaling the end of third period and the start of lunch. Nothing, absolutely nothing epitomized high school as one’s own personal Hell like cafeteria food. There was just something about it that exuded torture with promises of terrifying consequences once consumed.
I looked around and saw that all of the students were being ushered out of the library towards the cafeteria. I grabbed my bag and headed glumly towards the aroma of what promised to be nothing but bland and slightly burnt food, another body among the masses headed towards our gastronomical slaughter. I stood in line, tray on the ready, trying to decipher what exactly was what, and what exactly was safe.
I grabbed a baked potato because aside from
not cooking it completely, there wasn’t much one could do to screw it up; a bowl of chili, because cumin could save just about anything; a carton of milk, just in case the cumin failed, and headed towards the cashier. The middle aged woman behind the register was busy smiling and laughing with whomever it was that stood in front of me. I waited patiently as he gathered his change and placed it into his wallet. A nice wallet. Leather. Expensive.
He turned around and faced me.
My gray-eyed god was standing in front of me, a tray of food in his hands, a bemused smile stretched across his face.
I felt a jerk within me. The fire in my heart started to grow. It was hot. No, not hot—it was burning.
I could feel the heat rising in my chest, that scorching sensation climbing the walls inside of me to reach the outside. I felt it burn through my clothes, scalding hot and real. And…it smelled like chili?
It had happened in an instant: One minute I was staring into the deepest pool of pewter—the next, I was wearing a very hot bowl of chili on my chest, while the hands of this beautiful stranger were on the back of my tray, now pressed against the burning spot that spread across my shirt. His fingers were touching mine, cool, soothing, contrasting quite loudly with the searing pain that was creeping across my chest and down to my abdomen. That feels nice…
His eyes widened in shock, and he stepped back. If not for the burning—burning from the heat of food, to the burning of eyes staring in my direction, and finally the burning of embarrassment at having been so unbelievably clumsy—I would have whimpered at the loss of that small amount of comfort I received in our contact. But I had to step back into reality and realize that I was now covered in spicy tomato sauce in front of the entire student body, and that I didn’t know how it happened.
I heard a snort behind me and I turned to see Erica and Becca standing there, the two of them red-faced, trying very hard not to laugh…or look guilty. Graham stood stone faced behind the two, staring at the only thing that could keep attention focused away from me.
I turned back around to see for myself. He was kneeling, scraping the mess onto his tray!
“What are you doing?” I hissed as I bent down to remove the bowl and ruined chili from his tray and place it back onto mine. “This is my mess. I will clean it. Stop it—people are staring!”
He removed the bowl from my tray and placed it back onto his while staring at me with a bemused gleam in his eyes. “I’m cleaning up my mess.”
I glared at him. Silver eyes or not, he wasn’t going to do this to me—he wasn’t going to martyr himself in front of the entire cafeteria for Super Freak. “It’s my chili, my bowl, my mess. I should have been more careful and paid attention to what I was doing.” I reached for my bowl, prepared for him to argue again, but this time he didn’t stop me. He didn’t say or do anything as I placed the bowl back onto my tray. He simply waited until I was done, and then he stood up and left.
“Looks like even the new guy can’t stand being around you, Freak,” Erica’s voice announced loudly, her tone full of mocking satisfaction. A few people around us tittered, while someone made an obnoxious sound in response. “Could you hurry up and clean up your mess so that the rest of us normal people can eat?”
Behind her, Graham’s face was deadpan. It hurt.
I said nothing, just continued to clean up what I could, then headed towards the trash bin and emptied into it the remnants of my uneaten lunch. I mustered up what pride I could and, with my head held as high as possible, walked out of the cafeteria—and out of the school.
I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew it wouldn’t be to Mr. Branke’s class smelling like chili and reeking of embarrassment. I couldn’t go home, either—Dad was already upset with me, and I was equally upset with him, if not more so. While there was a good chance he was at work, if he weren’t, coming home from school because my shirt was covered in food wouldn’t exactly be conducive to repairing our relationship. I just had to be…away. I couldn’t take another second of listening to Erica’s voice, or seeing Graham pretend that I didn’t exist. And I definitely couldn’t stand to have him bear witness to the ridicule that had become my norm.
I hitched my backpack up higher on my shoulder and trudged down the sidewalk that would eventually disappear into a rocky shoulder and lead me towards the small public library that hid in rural Heath. I know Miss Maggie, the little old librarian who had been working there for the past thirty years wouldn’t mind me showing up a few hours before school was supposed to let out. I just had to figure out how to get a change of clothes. I couldn’t sit in an air conditioned room full of books smelling like I needed some sour cream and chives to go with my shirt, but going to the mall— which was in the opposite direction—wasn’t an option either.
I had only been walking for about a mile, and was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear it approach: The low rumble of a vehicle that didn’t sound like it belonged on a sidewalk, and yet was. I turned around and exclaimed, very loudly, “Oh dear bananas.”
There on the sidewalk was the gray-eyed stranger. He was on a matte, midnight-black motorcycle that looked too expensive for any average adult to own, much less a high school kid, and he wore a jacket that was just as dark. His eyes peered out at me, framed in the black window of a helmet. He looked like black flame.
With a tick of his head, he motioned for me to get on.
“Are you nuts?” I shouted, shocked and incredulous.
He again motioned for me to get on, his head jerking more determinedly.
I turned around and walked in the opposite direction, which was exactly where I did not want to go: back to school. I didn’t realize that he was right behind me again until I heard him rev the throttle. I turned and looked at him, furious that he hadn’t gotten the clue the first time. Once again, he motioned for me to get on.
“Why?” I asked. Who was I to him?
His response was another turn of the throttle.
I made an attempt to reverse my present course and head back in the direction of the library when he made that black monster beneath him growl like something I had never heard before—a shiver ran down my back, but was it out of fear or…anticipation?
“Fine!” I shouted at him, “But don’t you complain that your jacket stinks of beans and beef afterwards!” I climbed hesitantly onto the back of the bike, angry, confused. I looked down, my hands dangling clumsily at my sides. How do I hold on? The engine roared and the bike lurched forward—I realized as soon as my arms wrapped around him to keep from flying off that this was how it was done. An automatic response, I told myself. But the feeling of my arms around the waist of this person was too delicious to be automatic. It was…phenomenal. I could feel the warmth from beneath the jacket radiate outward towards my skin, causing it to prickle with goose bumps.
We were flying. That’s what it felt like. He was traveling so fast, I couldn’t make out anything recognizable. So many questions flew through my head, like the buildings and trees that whipped by, each one blending into the other.
Where were we going? What was his name? Where did he come from, and why did he follow me? Would there be any way for me to change out of my chili-infused clothing? So many questions I wanted to ask him, but over the roar of the bike and the padding of the helmet, I knew that he wouldn’t have been able to hear me, nor I his answers.
I simply rested by cheek on his back, knowing that there really wasn’t anything he could do to stop me and held on tighter, enjoying this rare and unusual moment for as long as it lasted. I accepted that whenever I returned down to earth, the harsh reality that was slowly becoming my life would swallow me up whole and all I’d be left with was this memory.
I didn’t want to move when we finally slowed down and came to a stop in a gravel filled parking lot that fronted what appeared to be a very large park. I hadn’t been here before, and surely there wasn’t much that I hadn’t seen in Heath, what with having someone like Graham Hasselbeck as your best friend—fo
rmer best friend. There wasn’t a sign or any type of logo that hinted at a name. It was just a large, open field with a few picnic tables, a solitary bench, some enormous rocks for climbing and sunning yourself, and a playground with a swing set. The parking lot had four tall light poles in each corner that looked like miniature versions of the one that illuminated the baseball field behind the school.
As soon as I heard the engine turn off I hopped off the bike; it was as though the last bit of stored energy my legs contained had turned them into springs. He followed, although his movement was much more fluid—used to it. That’s what it was. He was used to riding the bike, the feeling of that powerful vibration turning his insides to foam. My legs felt permanently bowed, and they rattled like a penny in a coffee can after what could only have been a ten minute ride. I was embarrassing myself. Again.
“I always wanted to know how it felt to be a human compass,” I muttered as I held onto my thighs in a vain attempt to keep them from shaking.
I could hear his muffled laughter and I looked up as he removed his helmet, my mouth suddenly still…gaping…dry.
Dear God in Heaven, how could someone be so beautiful? And what on earth was he doing here with me? Rather, what was I doing here with him? His hair, I realized now, was slightly longer than what was considered trendy here in Heath, and it was wavy. A chunk of it hung over his right eye, like a black velvet curtain hiding a star performer on the magnificent stage that was his face.
His nose, often a body part that looks so foreign on the human face, looked as though it had been sculpted from the same travertine stone of his skin. His cheekbones were high, sharp…almost dangerous. But his mouth—that was dangerous. Of that I was certain. His lips were full, poised at the ready to kill me with a smile. I knew it was coming any second now. How many times had I died today with just one quick twitch from his lips? This time, I was ready…a willing victim.
